


Marbles on Glass

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Broken Sherlock, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicide, Unrequited Love, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't die near St. Bart's on that fateful day, but neither did Jim Moriarty. After three years of loneliness and attempting in vain to dismantle Moriarty's web, Sherlock finds out that Jim is targeting John once again. The mortal enemies have to meet yet again. However, many things have changed since their last face-off. And not for the better...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marbles on Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This text is based on an amazing omegle rp I had some time ago. It was so great that I decided to turn it into a story. It had to be edited, but I tried not to change it too much. I was Sherlock and the other girl was Moriarty, so the credit for his awesomness doesn't go to me. My writing partner wished to remain anonymous.

Sherlock was about to take a leap when he felt a vibration in his pocket. That really surprised him, causing him to open his eyes and relax his tensed muscles. Since he died three years ago his phone was always silent. The only person who could be texting him was Mycroft, but he never did that. He preferred to call him or meet him in person. Still, Sherlock kept carrying his old phone. It was just a habit from his previous life and not a necessity. Not anymore.

He produced the phone from his navy blue jacket, which he truly hated, and glanced at the screen. 

_Hellooooo, Sherlock! -JM_

Sherlock stared at the message, his face expressionless. After a while, his fingers began to move seemingly without his will as he typed and sent the text.

_I think I should be surprised that you're alive, but truth be told: I am not. -SH_

The reply came almost instantly. 

_I wasn't surprised that you're alive, as well. You're rather predictable, Sherly. -JM_

_So are you, my dear Jim. - SH_

_Oh, we have many things in common, it seems. How's Johnny boy? -JM_

Sherlock felt a rush of blood in his temples, but he managed to remain calm. 

_And how's your dear Sebby? -SH_

_Why have you avoided my question with another question? Tsk tsk. -JM_

Sherlock's lips twitched as he typed:

_And why did you do exactly the same thing? -SH_

_Because I asked FIRST! -JM_

_Answering questions is dull. -SH_

_And now you're as well. I think I will go and say hi to our toy soldier. -JM_

Sherlock grit his teeth. 

_Leave him out of this. -SH_

_Why? He's fun. You're not. -JM_

_I'm sure Moran is even more fun, you don't need John. -SH_

_Please. Moran is out of country for official business. Johnny is aaaalll alooooone at a coffee shop. -JM_

Sherlock knew he had no choice but to play Moriarty's game. Again.

_What do you want? -SH_

_Entertainment. Care to meet me at your old flat? -JM_

_When? -SH_

_You have about thirty minutes until the good doctor is picked up. Your arrival stops my men, so I will allow you to set a time. Have fun! -JM_

Sherlock didn't waste any time on replying. He ran down the stairs and hailed a cab. It took him exactly twenty two minutes to get to Baker Street. He sprang out of the car and dashed at full pace to his old apartment. He entered the living room, panting.

Jim grinned when Sherlock burst into the room. He had been sitting in John's old armchair, which was gathering dust for the past three years. 

"Twenty two minutes? You didn't have to rush," he said mockingly, without turning to look at the detective. 

Sherlock just shot him a hateful glare, trying to catch his breath. Ignoring the look, Jim put on a casual, friendly smile. 

"Please, take a sit," he gestured to Sherlock's abandoned furniture.

Sherlock paced to the armchair and sat there, putting his chin on his palm. He looked unhealthy and even slimmer than he was before the fall. The new hairstyle  short and blonde  as well as cheap, casual clothes didn't suit him at all. 

"What do you want?" He asked impatiently. 

"Do I always have to want something, Sherlock?" Jim watched him carefully with his dark, staring eyes. 

"Of course you do," Sherlock smirked. "You don't pay friendly visits."

Jim shrugged.

"I just want to know how you're doooing!" He cooed mockingly. 

"Oh, I'm just peachy," the detective said with a wave of dismissal. 

Jim smiled at Sherlock.

"I see that. Tell me, Sherly, do you plan on ever... I don't know... telling your little doctor that you're alive?" he asked, as if it was a normal topic of conversation. 

"Depends," he answered tersely. 

"On what?" Jim pressed. 

"On whether I'll dismantle your evil empire and kill you or not," he said casually. 

Jim nodded, generating a look of apology.

"Oh, I doubt that..." 

"Well, one can dream." Sherlock smirked again. "Getting to your henchmen proved to be more difficult than I thought. Now at least I know why  the spider didn't leave his web."

Jim sat there watching Sherlock, as the detective watched him. He made no move to continue the conversation. 

"So what now?" Sherlock asked after several minutes of silence. 

Jim shrugged.

"I thought you'd have more to say."

"About what?"

"You're dead to the world. You tell me, Sherlock," He rested his chin on his hands, waiting.

"Being dead has its perks," he said indifferently. "No more annoying journalists at last."

"I hear Johnny visits your grave rather frequently..." Jim leaned back in the chair, grinning, refusing to let the subject drop.

"I am perfectly aware of that," he said, a stony expression on his face. 

"Sometimes he even _cries_ ," Jim shook his head, forcibly looking worried. 

"Tell me something I don't know already." Sherlock sounded bored.

"Have you heard what he says?" The corner of Jim's mouth twitched. "It is rather depressing. He talks to you as if you were still there."

"Many grieving people do that," he retorted, shrugging his shoulders. 

"You don't have the slightest sympathy? I thought you were best friends..."

"It's all in the past. Things changed," he explained simply. 

"Yet you seemed in such a hurry to keep him away from me..." Jim smiled.

"He deserves a peaceful life." Sherlock stated, looking tired and dispirited. He wasn't acting this time.

"Haven't you been sleeping? That's not good, Sherly." 

"Your concern is really touching."

Jim shrugged and stood up and went to look out of the window at the street, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. After a while he spoke:

"I must admit, I am impressed."

"By what?" 

Jim tilted his head slightly. 

"You seem to be taking his marriage perfectly fine."

"Why shouldn't I? It's his best chance to move on," he said, being very careful not to let his voice quiver. 

"Hm. You know, they're settling down quite nicely as well. My spies say they're thinking of having children." Jim sighed, smiling. "It's almost as if he forgot about you."

"That's for the best," Sherlock stared blankly at the floor. 

"I see," he took a few steps and leaned against the wall.

"What do you want, Jim? Revel in your victory?" He asked bitterly. 

"It's quite nice to, actually. Not that you would know," the criminal grinned. 

"Be my guest. I don't care anymore." Sherlock said with apathy. 

Jim pouted.

"Oh, that's a bit sad, Sherlock..." He began, approaching the detective. 

Suddenly Sherlock started laughing. 

Jim ears perked up. 

"Yeah? What's so funny?"

"Do you know where I was when you texted me?" Sherlock asked, suppressing a joyless smirk. 

"I didn't bother checking. I figured you'd come anyway," he smirked. 

Sherlock smiled. But it was a vacant, hollow and dark smile.

"On Bart's rooftop, preparing to jump." 

"Again?" He asked, his expression the same. "Feeling sentimental?"

"No. Suicidal," Sherlock confessed, the look of defeat on his face. "You've won, Jim. You've burned the heart out of me. You've broken your favourite toy. Open the champagne and start celebrating as formerly great Sherlock Holmes meets his end!"

Jim stuck out his lower lip. He finished walking towards Sherlock and bent over at the waist to look at him face to face. "Really? Sad. Even after that?"

"Even after that," he echoed and nodded. "I'm tired of this life."

Jim raised an eyebrow, examining Sherlock's face closely. 

"Well, if you _must_ ," he rolled his eyes and stepped back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pistol, carelessly tossing it to Sherlock. "Jumping off a building is rather foolish, I fear I may have overestimated you. Didn't think about the body?" 

"That's been already arranged with Mycroft, no need to worry." He shrugged, staring at the gun. "And let me ask you theoretically, since we both know the answer already: What prevents me from blowing your brains out now?"

Jim looked bored. 

"I've got two snipers placed across the street and one in the bedroom."

"No surprise here." Sherlock gave him a weak smile.

"You've gotten so _boring_ , Sherlock!" Jim sighed. 

"No point in being clever anymore," he stated simply, unfazed. 

Jim looked at him, annoyed. 

"Well if you're not going to," he extended his hand, gesturing to the gun. Sherlock looked at him almost with sympathy. 

"It must be so frustrating, being the smartest player on the board, no challenges anymore, life reduced to a constant tedium."

Setting his jaw, Jim let his hand flop to his side. 

"Suicide is too easy," He retorted dismissively. He'd by lying if he said he never considered it. 

"I thought you hated just _stayin' alive_?" Sherlock sniggered. 

Jim made a sound between a humourless laugh and a scoff. He turned to face the window, staring down at the cars driving past. 

Sherlock observed him for a while and finally made an unlikely proposition. 

"Why don't we join forces?" 

Jim spun, looking at him with piercing eyes.

"What makes you request such a thing?"

"I don't have a purpose and will to live, you're bored out your mind. Together we could watch the world burn. I'm not on the side of the angels anymore. They're perfectly fine on their own."

Jim looked at Sherlock with what almost was pity.

"You depress me, darling. I never thought you'd stoop so _low_." He raised both eyebrows and grinned, then turned back to the window. 

Sherlock gave a short laugh. 

"It was worth a try."

The two sat in silence for a while. Jim mulled a thought over in his head before finally turning to Sherlock. He sighed. 

"I would just kill you now, but that would be boring, because that's what you want." 

"A stalemate, it seems." Sherlock smiled, but his eyes remained impassive. 

Jim pursed his lips.

"Quite. So here we are!" He smiled with his teeth, raising his arms and gesturing towards the whole room. He did so for a few seconds before dropping his arms with a soft thud. "Wanna die together? What do you say?"

"What are you proposing?" Sherlock said, tilting his head.

"I say we're both tired. We're both bored. I'm not about to stop you..." He grinned bitterly. 

Sherlock squinted his eyes, pondering about it for a while. 

"Well, if we are to die together, let's go with a bang. Let's blow this place sky high, there's nobody here now, Mrs Hudson left for Dublin. Well, no one besides us anyway. And your snipers, of course, but that can be arranged." 

Jim smiled at the agreement. He stood, pulling out his phone and dialling a number. "Yes, pull back the snipers," he said, nearly giddy. "Set up explosives around the perimeter of the flat." Hanging up, he pocketed the phone and flopped back into the armchair, foot tapping. 

"So, how we're going to spend out last minutes on this vale of tears?" Sherlock asked with a smirk, but felt relieved for the first time since the fall. He threw the pistol away on the floor. It wouldn't be needed anymore. 

"Do what you'd like," Jim said dismissively. He leaned back and closed his eyes, smiling. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and thought about John. It was all for the best. With Baker Street 221B gone forever it'll be easier for him to truly move on and finally be happy. And Sherlock wanted nothing more. 

"You don't want to say goodbye to anyone?" Jim said, not moving or looking up. "We've got at least fifteen minutes. I did not come prepared with explosives." 

Sherlock thought about it for a while. 

"No. Everyone thinks I'm already dead, anyway. There's no point in proving them wrong now. And as for Mycroft... well, scraping our remains from the street will really piss him off."

Jim laughed. It sounded spastic, but he didn't care. Sherlock glanced at the apartment for the last time. So many happy memories were connected with this place, but he shook them off. Soon everything will be over. 

"I can always call it offffff..." Jim said in a singsong manner. 

"Don't you want to call Moran?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Moriarty's remark. 

Jim shrugged.

"No need. He's across the street with a gun," he laughed again. Not that he cared what Sebastian was thinking. 

" _Moran is out of the country for official business_ ," Sherlock echoed mockingly. 

"Honesty's no _fun_ ," Jim retired to a smile. 

"True enough," he nodded his assent.

Jim sighed. They sat in silence for a long time. 

"It was good playing, Sherly," he said flatly. 

"Yes. Even though you won in the end," he replied calmly not holding a grudge anymore. There was no point. 

"Hardly." His voice became bitter. Opening his eyes, he watched the detective's face closely. Sherlock also turned his head towards Jim and observed him intensively. 

"I always figured it would have happened like this. There was no way we both could have go on." Jim exhaled slowly. 

"Yes, I felt that too," he agreed grimly. "No happy endings for people like us." 

Jim nodded.

"I never thought we'd done it, though. Always pictured you shooting me and me returning the favour," he laughed. 

"It doesn't mean a thing, but I really appreciate that you agreed to bomb the flat. And that we can still have a civilised conversation after all that happened." 

Jim waved his hand. 

"What do you take me for? I'm not a psychopath." 

"Just a high functioning sociopath?" Sherlock asked with a knowing smirk. 

He gave Sherlock a tired look before letting his head fall back on the back of the armchair.

"Exactly."

Sherlock sighed, resting his head just like Moriarty did. 

"We're really similar. And yet so different. Curious thing this _life_."

"I am you gone wrong," Jim found himself laughing a bit hard at himself. "I'd say we've got about five minutes."

"Good. Waiting is tedious." Sherlock stated. 

Jim nodded. He finally felt relieved. Vaguely, he considered bidding farewell to Moran, but decided against it. 

"I don't remember the last time I felt so peaceful," Sherlock said on the verge of audibility. 

"I know exactly how you feel," he muttered at the same volume. 

"Look at us: two bloody Buddhist monks," he laughed but without much conviction. "Any glorious last words?" 

Jim glanced at Sherlock. Did he have anything to say? There was something about the last words; society found them important. Jim couldn't think of anything good, but realized Sherlock would be the ears of his words. But he had nothing to say. 

"I loved him. I really did. And I still do," Sherlock whispered, but this confession wasn't meant for Jim. It was meant for himself. In his final minutes Sherlock could finally afford to be honest.

Jim smirked.

"Yes, I know," he said bitterly. If anything, he really hated John. "Everyone knew."

"I wonder if he knew..." he trailed off, staring at the ceiling. 

Jim burst out into laughter, he couldn't help it. 

"That man hadn't the slightest idea!"

"That's good actually. Considering the circumstances," Sherlock smiled wearily.

Jim's laugh faded, he simply watched the detective. He almost felt sorry for him. But barely. 

"You shouldn't concern yourself with him." He checked his watch. "Two minutes."

"I know." Sherlock simply nodded. "You sure you don't want to say your goodbyes?"

Jim shook his head, feeling a pang of jealousy towards the bastard of a doctor. Nobody would miss James Moriarty, why say goodbye? 

"How do you think they'll explain the explosion on TV? Another gas leak? This neighbourhood seems especially prone to these," Sherlock stated, trying to avert his thoughts from John.

Jim smiled humourlessly in response, barely listening. He felt the hate building in his chest again, but he held it back. 

"How long?" Sherlock asked. 

"45 seconds." Jim realised his last words would probably be numbers. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and extended his hand to Jim. 

"Together."

Jim eyed the detective before taking his hand and shaking it firmly. He nodded, setting his jaw, then continued to look at his watch. 

"30."

Sherlock expected that so close to his death he'd be scared. But he wasn't. He actually waited for it, he wanted to greet death as his saviour from that miserable and lonely life he had. 

Jim exhaled through his nose. He'd never thought much about death, specifically his own. He didn't care much for it. Settling on a feeling of anticipation and peace, he watched out the window, looking from it to his watch. 

"20."

Sherlock turned his head towards Jim and gave him a tired smile, squeezing his hand.

"Anything you want to get off your chest?" 

Staring at Sherlock with a look he hoped said everything, he shook his head. 

"Ten."

Sherlock didn't seem startled at the sudden revelation. He simply nodded to Jim, acknowledging the unspoken truth. There was sadness in his eyes. 

"Five," Jim said quietly. Sherlock took a hint. It didn't matter now anyway. "Four."

"Three." Sherlock shut his eyelids, thinking of John, the love of his life. He regretted never telling him how he really felt. But it was too late now. He only hoped that John would be truly happy without him.

"Two." Jim glanced at the detective for the last time and closed his eyes. 

"One."

And then the flames consumed them both.


End file.
